Smooth Criminal
When I was a smooth criminal, I was bad.
Not bad in a positive kind of way, but rather actually terrible. In fact, the adjective in my nickname did not refer to my cool demeanor as much as it did my notorious wrinkleless balls.
This much was evident during my last heist, which took place in 1935 when my partner, Ben Shamone, told me he wanted to be starting something. The local bank had installed a new safe, and the prospect of beating it seemed thrilling.
We arrived at the door at 3:34 after midnight, him in his fedora and white glove, and I in my billie jeans. Once we were inside, I rolled out my tools, and began drilling in a wall, hoping to reach the wires within.
“Shh. We are not alone,” Ben said.
Appearing out of the darkness was a slender woman, a pretty young thing of perhaps twenty-six. As she walked closer, the light carved out her features: a cute, pointy nose, and eyes that glowed like blueberry jam. Her skin was not a color I was familiar with, but for me, it did not matter if she was African American or white.
She introduced herself as the banker’s wife, who had heard about our job and wanted to help. She was looking to get back at her husband for his infidelities. “A man should be faithful,” she said, “and walk when not able, and fight ‘til the end.”
I nodded, because that made complete sense, and got back to work.
“Ow!” I said, as a piece of plaster flew off the wall and hit my face. It seemed I made a horrible mistake. I had broken a pipe, and now water was gushing out, quickly creating a flood on the lobby floor. The alarm rang.
“He.. he.. is running away,” the woman said.
“Who!?” I did not know why I asked that in such a shrill voice, because I already knew who it was. I spun around, and then around again, and there was Ben, who at the first sign of danger, just upped and ran away.
I laid down my drill, and slowly accepted my fate. But if I was not going to remain a free man for much longer, then at least I could make this girl mine. It seemed she had the same idea.
“It looks like it’s just the two of us,” she said, as she slid closer. “So why let my husband have all the fun?”
I wrapped my arms around her waist, and defied gravity as I leaned her back and kissed her. In the distance, I heard the approaching sirens.
“Looks like we don’t have much time,” she said.
I assured her that she needed not worry, for women did not call me a speed demon for nothing.
“Tell me why you want me,” she beckoned.
I pulled at her earth-colored thong, and declared, “I like big butts and I cannot lie.”
She pushed me away and looked offended, as if what I said was inappropriate and grossly out of place. Noticing my error, I corrected myself.
“Your butt is mine,” I said. “Gonna take you right.”
A smile replaced her scowl, and she came back into my arms. That was a close save.
She placed her lips against my ear, and told me her name. Her hands glided to my belt.
The headlights of police cars pierced through the windows. People outside were shouting. We had at most half a minute, but I wasn’t going to stop until I had enough.
“Is it true what they say about your balls?”
Oh, Diana. You dirty.
